Chapter 1
Judge Parker sounded bad-tempered when US Marshal Rock Brandon walked into his office.
"Take a seat, Rock," Parker ordered, as the lanky looking marshal sauntered casually into the office. The man looked more like a professional gambler than a lawman: a dark, broadcloth suit, a Derby hat, and shoes polished to a high gleam. He was about thirty, with dark Irish looks, and a thin, inquisitive face. "Care for a coffee, Rock?"
"Tea please, sir," Brandon asserted wryly with a crooked grin. It was an old joke between them. He'd made the mistake in their earlier associations of asking for coffee, and it had gone down like porter. The judge liked his coffee strong. Ever since, the judge always asked him would he like a coffee, even though he knew he preferred tea.
It wasn't just coffee that the judge was strong on; he had a strong brand of justice that he liked to administer. The gallows in the corner of the courtyard outside were testament to that. They didn't call him the hanging judge for nothing. "Suppose you heard about the raid on Timber Crossing?" Parker queried.
"Heard whispers, Judge."
"One of our men was killed."
"Who was it?"
"Keep it under your hat for the moment," the judge said. "I'm meeting his widow later to give her the news. I'm not looking forward to it, but when I do it, I want to be able to assure her that we have one of our best men on it. It was Hank Slade."
Brandon's face changed. He hadn't been expecting that. A fellow Irishman whom he'd shared many a laugh with. And the odd drink.
His shoulders slumped and his voice was quiet as he asked: "How did it go down?"
"Details are still a bit sketchy," Parker announced. "Word we got back was that nobody lifted a hand to help him. He went up against ten raiders. Shot two of them seemingly, but one came up behind him and opened up with a shotgun on him."
"No chance, then?"
"None whatsoever," the judge agreed. "Fagin himself wanted to go after them but we decided to send yourself and as many deputies as you need. Plus the usual transportation stuff."
Fagin had wanted to go. Parker's most senior marshal. It said something for their faith in him that they were sending him in. It also said something that he could have his pick of deputies to help him in his task.
He stammered his thanks.
The judge shrugged aside his words and said: "Think nothing of it, boy."
Rock restrained a grin. He was hardly a boy anymore. He had arrived in the United States as a baby with his parents following the Great Famine in the old country - Ireland. He was now pushing thirty and would soon be the wrong side of it. His features were rugged which spoke of the time spent in the great outdoors. He had thin piano fingers which could throw a gun with the best of them if he were so inclined although there was no sign of a gun belt in the judge's office at Fort Smith.
Parker put a question to him as he drained his cup of tea. "When can you leave?" he asked.
"Tonight, judge," Brandon confirmed.
"Draw whatever expenses you'll need. You can account for it when you get back."
